


Grace

by superagentwolf



Series: The Touch of Time [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Brother Feels, Don't kill me please, I was trying to write slash, M/M, Q is a Holmes, Slow Build, and then I angsted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 06:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft are hurt by Daddy, and it's the beginning of the end. Baby Q is six years old, sent to his Aunt and Uncle's where he almost dies. Sherlock steps up as the big brother Q needs, and everything is right until it all goes wrong again. Or, the story in which Q's past is revealed and the Brothers Holmes are reunited after years of bruises and broken things that need mending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warm

He was too young to understand why. Old enough to know she wouldn’t come back.  
Q was seven, and his mother was dead- or at least, the woman he once called mother was dead. Q was not with his family any more. Daddy Holmes was a bad man, and Sherlock was empty and hurt while Mycroft was desperately trying to keep the family’s estate together. Mommy had been away and when left alone with their father, the Holmes brothers suffered. 

In the end, Mycroft stayed home to watch over Mommy while Sherlock was in the hospital and Q, the baby, was sent away. Away to a cold, stone house and a colder school. He was only six at the time, and Sherlock was nine, and Mycroft sixteen. They were a broken family. Baby Q was all alone, with strange people in a strange place, but he did as he always had. He was a good boy, and he was quiet, and he pretended that the kids at school didn’t push and shove and bite and punch. He pretended he was okay and good grades and a big brain were all he needed to survive, and that was how he spent his life. 

His new “Mother” asked him about his bruises, fussed over him, and it felt nice. She was warm, if a bit misguided, floundering about when confronted with a child. Q didn’t care. She was there. Until she wasn’t. “Mother” went to pick him up from school for break, but she never arrived. Q waited in the rain, and eventually, three days later, “Father” came. Q’s teacher explained how “Mother” was driving in the rain, and she lost control, and she wasn’t going to be home any more. “Father” couldn’t look at Q.

One day, Q was walking home, a limp in his step from being bruised badly on his shin. It hurt, but he wasn’t about to break. The little soldier kept on, eyes set straight ahead, moving forward. He was so set on the road ahead of him that he didn’t see the boys in the trees, watching him with hateful eyes and jealous hands, seeing a rich young boy that would surpass them in every way if they didn’t set him straight. The boys came after Q, and no matter how he tried to run, they caught him, and they beat him. They beat his pale skin into violet flowers and his dark curls into muddy tangles. They fought until they saw what they had done, and then they ran. They ran and left Q lying on the ground.  
Q thought he was strong enough to face anything. But he was eight years old, and no matter how much death seemed like a peaceful escape, when faced with the dark shadow, he was scared. Q was terrified, and he didn’t want to die, and he was all alone. It started to rain, and he could feel the blood and tears and rain bringing a chill into his very bones. He was dying.

His Uncle didn’t come for him. “Father” didn’t care enough to look; he called the local police and let them find Q, beaten and unconscious. Q was taken to the hospital in the nearby city, eight years old and barely alive. Someone decided to call Mommy Holmes and Mycroft, and since Mum was in poor health- she’d always been in poor health- Mycroft came. Mycroft was eighteen, and he was in charge of the family now. Q was barely awake when Mycroft came, and he saw the older brother he’d once known, and he was afraid. Afraid of what Mycroft would think, of what he would do- Q was hurt in more ways than one, and Mycroft had enough to take care of. In the end, Mycroft didn’t say much- he just sat by the bed, gripping Q’s hand tightly, silent.

Sherlock arrived the day after Mycroft did. He was eleven, and he wasn’t supposed to be out of school, but Sherlock did as he pleased. He arrived at the hospital, a flurry of motion, black curls wilder than Q’s dark brown, pale and red-cheeked. He came into the room, took one look at Q’s faded eyes and bruised skin, and immediately looked sharply to Mycroft. Sherlock was sharp and cold, asking why, why wasn’t I informed, he’s my brother too, and Mycroft eventually stood, murmuring something to Sherlock about Mum before leaving. Sherlock started crying when Mycroft left. Q woke then, somehow coming out of his haze, watching his brother’s tears fall, and opened his arms, eyes watery. Sherlock climbed into the bed, holding Q tightly, baby Q, as if he were afraid that somehow Q would just disappear. Q felt warmer than he’d felt in years, and he knew Sherlock loved him, and somehow that made his heart so full it hurt.  
Q went home with Sherlock. He slept with his brother, curled up to his chest, warm and at home and safe. Sherlock cut his hair, and he made him warm chocolate, and he showed Q how to tie a tie. Sherlock was there, and Q was happy- if only for a little while.


	2. To Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is painted in purples, greens, blues.   
> Or, how Q watched his older brother fall apart.

Sherlock came home with bruises one day. Q had always respected his brother’s silence, the way that Sherlock was more thought than theatrics- but the moment the front door opened, Q could feel the silence rising like a dark cloud.

Q rose from the king-sized bed he and Sherlock shared, sensing the wrongness. Shuffling across the floor in a pair of Sherlock’s old slippers and one of his worn cardigans, Q peeked around the corner to see into the front hallway. Sherlock stood there in the doorway, staring at the floor, and Q resisted the urge to run to him. Something was wrong. Q slowly walked to his older brother, trying to gaze past the mass of black curls and into the blue-grey eyes hidden behind them. His tiny, cold, hands reached for Sherlock’s, and he spoke tentatively.

“Bee?” It was Q’s nickname for Sherlock, after his older brother’s favorite animal (insect, Q insisted, but Sherlock didn’t care much for the particulars of creatures other than humans). Sherlock slowly raised his head, and Q’s eyes widened as he saw the purple around one brilliant blue eye, the dark smudges by his lips. Q’s eyes filled slowly, and Sherlock seemed to snap out of whatever stupor he’d been in, immediately tightening his grip on Q’s hands.

“It’s okay, Cat. It’s okay,” Sherlock murmured, resting his head on top of Q’s brown waves.

-

It wasn’t okay. It didn’t get better. It got worse.

Sherlock started pulling further away from other people, retreating to the vast space of his own mind. He started drifting away from reality, and Q saw his brother begin to disappear. It scared him.

The drugs didn’t start for another five years. Sherlock was sixteen, and suddenly it all became too much. Q was thirteen, taking online classes, and still the scared little boy he was when Sherlock had first come to the hospital. He did the only thing he could think of at the time. He called Mycroft.

Mycroft was twenty-three, _almost_ the British government, and decidedly different. But then, so was Q.

“You’ve changed,” Mycroft said slowly, gazing at Q- they were the same height now, Q thinner. Q felt a detached sort of rage at Mycroft’s seemingly unconcerned attitude, but his worry for Sherlock overrode it.

“Help him,” Q said flatly, and then he turned and walked away.

-

Sherlock was mad at first. Well, _enraged_ would probably describe his attitude more accurately. Mycroft had a friend- some handsome young police worker by the name of Lestrade- raid the house while Sherlock was at school. Q watched Lestrade closely from behind his glasses. Mycroft sent Q a warning glance, and he took it to mean that Lestrade was not “ordinary”.

Sherlock got home, shadows painting his pale skin, and grew cold when he saw Mycroft. He made snide comments, eventually resorting to low blows as he grew more agitated. Q stood by the doorway, white knuckles and black jumper stark against the cream walls. _Never cared about him. Never cared about **us**. Why now? Being **Daddy**?_

Q could taste the words before they left Sherlock’s mouth. He felt them, like a sick, black, cloud. Like an oil, slick and burning on the skin. He knew what he had to do. Q moved in front of Sherlock.

Mycroft hit hard. His hands weren’t large. They weren’t heavy; the fingers not particularly spidery. But Mycroft was angry, and he was angry at Sherlock- and he hit hard. Only it didn’t hit Sherlock. It hit Q.

There was a silence, for a moment. The brief silence in which realization and anger and all other emotions take grip and incapacitate the human mind. The time in which the brain prioritizes the threats, the actions and reactions, chemical and electrical pathways lighting up like the stars in their eyes. There was silence, and then a roar. Mycroft and Sherlock’s combination of horror and guilt hung heavily in the air. Mycroft’s leftover anger receded with the knowledge that he’d gone too far, no matter the faults of his younger brother- or his own ego. Sherlock’s anger vanished when he realized he’d put his younger brother in the middle of just what they’d tried to leave.

Everything changed quickly. Sherlock went to Uni, under a strict probation from Mycroft Q knew he’d probably bend- but not break. Q, all alone in a large, empty home, took to his own schooling. He quickly developed a knack for all things electronic, finding ways to reach Sherlock hundreds of miles away.

Before Sherlock left, he gave Q some cardigans.

“To keep you warm,” He’d said, and it was stated matter-of-factly, but his eyes were shining and his lips were pulled down just a little at the corners. _To keep you warm when I’m not there._ Q had stood before his equally tall, thin, brother, staring into clear blue eyes. He held his hands.

“Bee,” Q said quietly, and it was only a little shaky, only a little scared, because baby Q was growing up- and he had to fight. He had to fight, and he had to live without his big brother. Sherlock gave him one last look-over, one last hug.

And then he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I just picked up this chapter after being away from it for a long while. It seemed fractured to me, but I hope that's not the case when you read it :) many thanks to all who left their comments on Chapter 1 and a big thank you to all who left kudos.


	3. The Merits of Lemon Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James didn't exactly fall in love with Q. At least, that's not the way he would explain it.

James wasn’t the type to actively pursue someone, but he found Q to be intriguing. The new Quartermaster was young, and thin, and curiously balanced (although precariously) somewhere between the edges of where mental, self-destructive, possessed, naïve, and egotistical met. James found in Q a little bit of himself, and he both hated and was attracted to it. For Q’s part, the bespectacled enigma seemed to take no notice of James’ fascination, much less his sly whispers of seduction.

If James had to put it into words, he’d probably say that he’d stumbled into love. Perhaps.

In the agent’s defense, it was quite hard for Q to be _gradual_ at anything. He _was_ , and if you couldn’t follow along with his instantaneous fireworks (like synapses firing, natural- or maybe cold, like a computer) then you weren’t worth his time. For James, sudden changes were all part of the job description, yet it still caught him sideways to have been blinded on the home front, so to speak.

James started with what he already knew. He tried innuendo, but Q simply did as Q did and responded likewise. It was rather annoying, yet the agent enjoyed their banter as he went off on mission after mission- and the disapproving looks from M, the frowns laced with uncertainty and resignation, were certainly entertaining. In any case, what had always worked for the double-oh seemed to have no effect on the Quartermaster.

James’ next bet was a little more physical. He brought Q tea, letting his fingers brush, enjoying the silk of Q’s artist’s fingers. He stood close behind Q as the latter typed manically, receiving a short, clipped, request for personal space, because Q was “ _trying_ to work on how to save this agent’s _life_ ”. James grew more and more frustrated, finally sliding his arm over Q’s shoulders lazily as the young man finished up a report. Q had simply responded with a tense, “I _see_ that injured rib, double-oh seven- now _get_ it looked at before I match your other side so you can’t _breathe_.”

-

In a state of utter and complete frustration, James brought pie to work. _Pie_. He’d heard Q mention to one of his many indistinguishable minions that “Unless you’re bringing me _pie_ , you’d better have a _damn good_ reason to bother me while I’m assisting a double-oh.” The pie was lemon, and fresh, and smelled absolutely heavenly. James received several strange stares as he entered the building, to which he responded with deadly glares.

His first clue that something was amiss was the lack of busy movement in Q Branch. There were no faceless minions bumbling about the hallways with stacks of paper and messes of computer parts or cables. There weren’t any double-oh agents, even, and the general ghost-like silence bothered James. It wasn’t natural.

 

As James entered through the glass doors of the control room, he noticed Q’s back was turned to him, and the Quartermaster was clutching his phone like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality. James set the pie down at the entrance and moved quietly.

“-why- I don’t _understand_. You can’t- he can’t have just-,” Q’s voice was thick with tears and he was struggling to finish his sentences. James was immediately alarmed; the day that _Q_ couldn’t form perfect sentences was the day the double-oh agents would all die. Something was _wrong_.

“My, he _can’t_. He _can’t_ be dead. Just- did you check? Did you _check_ with John? Mrs. Hudson? _Anyone?_ ”

James glanced at Q’s face from the side. His eyebrows were knit together tensely, the side of his lip bloodied were it had been worried by his teeth. His eyes were faintly red and glassy, on the verge of spilling over with tears. There was no stopping this, James knew- whoever it was Q was speaking of, they were dead, and they obviously meant quite a lot to the Quartermaster.

“My. _Please_. Not- _not him_. _Not my brother_.”

Some unknown part of James’ heart began to bleed.

Q gripped the edge of his desk, the phone thrown across the room in a sharp crack, the tears finally falling. He was on his knees in a moment, hands tangled in his wild, brown waves, screaming in anger and anguish and sorrow. James moved quickly, automatically, not knowing quite what to do. James’ job involved collateral damage, always involved distraught families or such left behind, but he never had to comfort any of them. Yet he _had_ to comfort Q.

“Q,” James said firmly, as the Quartermaster immediately fought the agent’s grip. His fists hit at James weakly, and the agent simply waited as the anger subsided, replaced with raw, ragged sobs. Eventually, Q quieted, and James wondered when he’d started rubbing the Quartermaster’s back soothingly. They remained on the floor for a moment while Q sniffed, face buried in James’ shoulder.

“Forget about it. Forget about everything,” Q said quietly, voice hoarse. James glanced down at the mop of brown hair by his shoulder, frowning.

“Why would I do that?” Q tensed automatically, stiff in the agent’s arms, and he pulled away slowly, red eyes and wrecked face.

“I understand this was unpleasant for the both of us, and I assure you, I can certainly compensate you for the trouble. It would make no sense for you to t-,”

James raised a hand, suddenly realizing what Q meant.

 

“I’m not _telling_ anyone, Q. Your- they have _no right_ to know anything about you, much less anything concerning grief over someone obviously dear to you,” James said firmly, with conviction. And he meant every word. Q looked at him from behind his glasses, something curious in his eyes.

“And you do? Have a right?” Q asked, and his gaze was no less unwavering than when he analyzed and deconstructed a code or a double-oh. James bowed his head for a moment. _Who knew. So **this** is what it takes._

“I _sincerely_ hope I do,” James responded softly, raising his eyes to Q’s face, waiting for what he hoped he’d see there. Q’s lips parted slightly, and his cheeks flushed, and suddenly he couldn’t look at the agent. He sniffed once, rubbing at his eyes with the overlong sleeves of his pale blue cardigan.

“Well,” he muttered, seemingly at a loss for words, “well. I should think you do, don’t you?” He glanced up at James from beneath his lashes, vulnerable, and suddenly, all James wanted to do was hold the Quartermaster.

“Yes,” James said simply, brushing an unruly, brown lock of hair away from Q’s face. Q looked down, cheeks a delicate shade of rose, and his mouth opened, and suddenly there was an anguished beeping noise from the phone thrown in the corner.

Q looked at the phone as if it was responsible for the death he’d just been informed of, and James couldn’t help but laugh. The Quartermaster looked back at him somewhat incredulously, before deciding that there was no point in going against the double-oh and joining him in laughter. Q rose to retrieve the useless piece of technology, and James retrieved the lemon pie. They met at Q’s desk.

“I brought pie,” James said, somewhat unnecessarily, and Q looked at the pastry with raised eyebrows before laughing. James laughed with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must say, when I started this fic, I actually had no clue where I wanted it to go. I still have no clue. But I hope you'll stay with me for the long run, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm starting the gradual transition into Q and James' relationship, now that Q's past has been explained. Read and review, and thank you for staying with me!


	4. Who Will See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weeks after the phone call, James makes an offhand comment about Q and ends up learning more about the brother that Q lost.

James watched Q’s fingers fly across the holographic keyboard, a new invention no doubt commissioned by the Quartermaster himself. Something about the way Q moved gave James the image of something clever and dangerous.

“Spider,” James said, not realizing his verbal slip until he noticed the stiffening of Q’s shoulders and the hiccup in the steady, blue flashes of the keyboard. James blinked, confused, before sidling a little closer to Q.

“Arachnophobia?” James said lightly, jokingly, but his fingers brushed Q’s cardigan ever so lightly, reassuringly. It wasn’t often Q opened up to him, even since the call about Q’s brother. The Quartermaster sighed a little, giving up on his work, hands removing his glasses and massaging the bridge of his nose in a curiously exhausted manner. His glasses remained in his hands as he gazed bleakly at the screen-paneled wall.

“My brother. I- everyone, we used to say he was like a spider. So many people in his network, and the way he could get information so easily,” Q said, smiling, a little edge of irony to the curve of his lips. James nodded once, head a little bowed, hands clasped behind his back. It wasn’t every day that Q opened up to him.

“Sherlock was incredible. He could tell everything about a person by just looking at them. Sarcastic, abrasive, didn’t care about what other people thought-,” Q laughed brightly, and the shine to his eyes was almost invisible. “He was like a double-oh, my brother. High-functioning sociopath,” Q said, shaking his head a little. He stared down at his motionless fingers, smile fading. James leaned against the desk behind him, glancing around the nearly abandoned Q-branch and the last few half-alive minions slumped over their keyboards.

“Sounds like you,” James said softly, and Q’s incredulous look nearly made him laugh. “Smart. Unafraid,” James explained, stepping closer to the Quartermaster. Q’s eyes were bright, and he didn’t blink.

“He was,” Q said softly, his voice a whisper. James turned away, but he let his fingers interlace with the longer ones beside him, not caring for a moment who would see.

 

* * *

 

James didn't feel very guilty. He probably should, considering he was purposely trying to broach the subject, but he felt as if Q _needed_ to talk about his brother. James had experience with loss, and he knew that keeping something of such gravity under cover could be harmful. His nudging didn't seem to be working, though, even if Q was becoming more comfortable with the double-oh. Eventually, James decided he would have to simply jump in headfirst.

"Q. Tell me about your brother," James said softly, and he watched the Quartermaster's laughing eyes dull a bit. The autumn day was a little chilly, and the park bench they frequented for lunch suddenly seemed much more intimate than it had ever been before. For a moment, James had a gut-wrenching feeling of horror, the fear of pushing Q too far engulfing him in darkness.

"Sherlock," Q said softly, as if he were tasting the name. "His name was Sherlock," Q said firmly, and he folded his long legs beneath him, settling into a more comfortable position. James turned to Q, blue eyes intent as he listened.

"I loved him. Sherlock took care of me when I was younger; he was there in place of a mother and father. My eldest brother was never there- too busy becoming important," He added bitterly. Q fingered the edge of his blue-grey cardigan, the fabric soft and worn. "He gave me this one, you know," he said, smiling faintly. "He gave me a few, before he left. Before he was sent away. He was picked on, bullied- he was too smart," Q said, his expression showing just how ridiculous he felt it was. James nodded, leaning a bit closer, comforting.

"He used when they beat him. He needed to get away, so I called my brother. He made Sherlock leave, and Sherlock didn't want to, but he did. I couldn't quite forgive either of them, I think. I _needed_ someone, anyone, that understood. But I got along without them, and that was that." Q took a sip of his tea, the steam rising around his flushed cheeks and meeting the dark lashes of his shining eyes.

"What happened?" James asked quietly, not quite wanting to know the answer.

"He jumped off a roof. They said it was because he was a fake, but I can't believe it. I _knew_ him. You can't fake that level of arrogance," Q said, laughing brokenly, wiping his eyes violently. "He jumped because he was protecting somebody. There's a reason Sherlock never worked for the government. He wanted to help people, you know, but he'd never admit it. He was so _good_ ," Q finished, unable to continue as the tears started falling.

James pulled Q close, realizing that Headquarters was probably watching, not quite caring what exactly they looked like. James held his Quartermaster, knowing he needed it, and let the autumn wind pass over them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's so short. So I know it's been forever, please forgive me! OTL It's just that I'm writing this from the dorm's laundry room...and college is a bit different than high school. Anyways, please enjoy, and I hope that you all keep reading and reviewing!


	5. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a sticker on Q's doorknob when he returns home. It means everything.

Q stood before his apartment door, lips parted around the edges of a gasp that had never escaped his mouth. There was a puddle forming by his feet, an empty coffee cup rolling away in a slow circle as its contents inched towards the left side of the hallway. James was there, a constant presence, but Q only saw the image before him on his door.

A bee.

It was a silly thing, a sticker from a children’s book. Q’s neighbor often watched her nephew during the day and he would sometimes draw in the hallways with crayon or leave glitter scattered across the hardwood floors. This was different, though. It was deliberate. A tiny bee sticker placed just in the center of the doorknob.

“Q?” James’ voice was quiet, his body tense with anticipation of something. He was a trained solider. Q shook his head once, suddenly propelled forward, hand twisting the doorknob as he flung himself into his apartment. James didn’t follow. He knew.

The blue-grey eyes, startling against pale skin. Almost-black hair, wild curls brushing high cheekbones.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Q breathed, and it seemed as if he no longer had a heartbeat, or a heart. He was frozen in time and space and nothing moved at all as he stared at his older brother. Sherlock didn’t say anything, he just sort of smiled in the way that he did. A half-twist of the lips, a small huff that indicated he didn’t know what to say. His eyes were shining. Q felt himself break as he ran across the room, feeling as if he were eight years old again and left abandoned on the edge of the road. Sherlock caught him as he always did, long arms deceptively thin but strong. Q cried into his brother’s chest and didn’t care. He didn’t care how old he was or where he was or what happened, all he knew was that his brother was back.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said softly, and he seemed to be close to tears. “I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

 

There was time later for Q to be angry at Sherlock. Time for him to ask hard questions, demand hard answers. For now, however, he was content just to have his brother back. They sat side by side on the couch, equally lanky and tangled together in a seemingly chaotic mess of legs that happened naturally- something they’d done before. Sherlock held his younger brother’s hand, long fingers intertwined, and Q watched his brother’s cool eyes.

“It wasn’t enough time,” Q said softly, feeling the bones in Sherlock’s hand. “I didn’t have enough time to let you go.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, but he never seemed frustrated with repeating the same sentiment. He seemed to notice Q’s observation and his eyes closed momentarily. “I can never tell you enough- I can never make you understand just how sorry I was. I am.”

“John?” Q asked quietly, feeling his brother’s pulse skip and change beneath his fingers.

“…engaged. Mary,” Sherlock said, forming the name carefully, tasting it. Q felt his heart sink a little bit and he inched closer to Sherlock, resting his messy head of waves against his brother’s shoulder. “He was happy. Then I came back,” Sherlock added, and his tone was morbidly amused.

“No,” Q said firmly, sitting up straighter. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and found that they were no longer as cold as they had been before. _John_. “No, I don’t believe that, Bee.” Sherlock stirred at the old nickname, gaze resting on his younger brother. “It’s not true.”

“How would you know,” Sherlock said tiredly, and Q felt as if Sherlock had been through this conversation once before.

“Because I know. I know when you change someone, and when they change you, there is no forgetting. There is no going back.” Q held his brother’s hand close, feeling scars that hadn’t been there before and roughness on his violinist’s fingers. “He was happy because he had to be. Without you. He is going to be happy now because he will be, with you.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted again, but it was a genuine smile this time. Q lived for the moments when he made his brother smile. Sherlock was removed, more than Q, and it felt nice to bridge the gap every now and then. It reminded Q that he was not alone.

“When did you get so perceptive, Cat?” Sherlock asked, fingers threading lazily through Q’s hair.

“I learned from the best,” Q replied with equal humor. Sherlock chuckled softly and pulled Q to his chest again. They relaxed, lying on the couch, watching the absurdly useless fan on the ceiling spin leisurely. Q let out a sigh through his nose, eyes closing for a moment of peace. _This feels like home_ , he thought to himself. _My brother is alive and in him I have my home_. It was the last thought he had before falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had taken a hiatus because I didn't feel like I was getting anywhere with this story. Thankfully, Season 3 of Sherlock inspired me again. So I'm back.  
> Song: Home by Gabrielle Aplin

**Author's Note:**

> So...this is my first attempt at Holmes!Q. I hope I haven't ruined it horribly already. I plan for this to be a while...probably at least 5 chapters of the same length to get it done. Anyways, let me know what you think :)


End file.
